


a few exceptions

by preromantics



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ladies," Santana says, pouring something icy and neon-colored into plastic margarita classes from where she's sitting against the footboard of her bed, Brittany beside her with her legs outstretched, her fuzzy striped socks pressing into Quinn's bare ankle. / For the prompt: sleepover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a few exceptions

"Ladies," Santana says, pouring something icy and neon-colored into plastic margarita classes from where she's sitting against the footboard of her bed, Brittany beside her with her legs outstretched, her fuzzy striped socks pressing into Quinn's bare ankle.   
  
Brittany gulps half of her drink down when Santana hands it to her; Quinn watches from the headboard as Brittany's face twists in an unpleasant way and she holds her laughter inside.   
  
"Brain burst," Brittany says, momentarily resting her head against the edge of the glass before downing the rest.   
  
"Freeze, Brit," Santana says, automatic. She reaches out towards Quinn with the other glass and Quinn shakes her head.   
  
"I'm not going to the first day of school with a hangover," she says, pushing Santana back with her feet when she rolls up on her knees.   
  
Santana rolls her eyes, "It's booze-free," she says, "and it's delicious, but suit your little blonde self."   
  
Quinn rolls her eyes right back and Brittany grabs her drink instead. "Tastes like summer," Brittany says, easily drinking half of Quinn's glass and then smacking her lips, "and a little bit like San."  
  
It's easy to ignore the comments; even before Quinn knew the tension was there between Santana and Brittany she still knew what was going on. They'd started this end of summer tradition on the night before their sophomore year -- all of them working their way up within the Cheerios after a grueling summer practice camp, all of them eying various guys as targets for the next year, working towards the same goal: to be popular and envied and noticed. That first pre-first day of school sleepover had accidentally become a tradition, if three years running counted as a tradition at all. Next year they wouldn't have this: Quinn would be stuck in Ohio, Santana off to somewhere where she could be herself (Quinn knew that was the only option, that Santana was so much  _more_  than Lima could handle, always had been even before Quinn figured it out), and Brittany would probably get to leave too, go somewhere that valued movement and body lines and rhythm over intelligence.  
  
Santana kicks out at Brittany's feet for her comment, her legs tangling up with Quinn's and Brittany's in the middle of the mattress. She doesn't say anything, like she might have just a year ago, even around Quinn, and Quinn catches the color high on Santana cheeks, so uncharacteristic that it makes Quinn's chest tight, just a little, feels wrong to notice at all.   
  
"Alright," Santana says, meeting Quinn's eyes briefly and then turning away. On anyone else, her expression would look caught, but instead Santana just leans over and sets her pitcher of mix and the empty glasses on the ground beside the bed and sits up and claps, once. "Senior year predictions, let's go."  
  
Their predictions are generally never right -- the past two years at McKinley have been more than any of them had expected, full of ups and downs that would never fit on a single sheet of notebook paper like the one Santana is holding and tapping her pen against.   
  
Quinn doesn't particularly want to predict anything this year, mostly she just wants the year to be over so she can settle into whatever her life is going to be. Santana and Brittany both look bright-eyed with the possibilities of their predictions, though, so Quinn arranges her face into a grin and sits up a little, waiting for one of them to start.  
  
"Kurt will get pregnant," Brittany lists, the first one to say anything. Quinn groans and Santana gasps out a bite of laughter and leans her head onto Brittany's shoulder.   
  
"Honey," Santana says, and Quinn thinks she probably sounds more fond than she means to, "we've talked about this. Just because he's sexing that Blahbler with a dick, doesn't mean he can have little Blahbler babies."   
  
Brittany leans her head back over onto Santana and laughs into her hair. "I know," she says, her voice drawn out, "I just wish they  _could_ . They're always so cute at Rachel's weird pool parties! Maybe if we write it down it will have a better chance of happening."  
  
Santana leans back up and pats at Brittany's thigh, looking quickly at her while Brittany's head is turned. Quinn can see so much on Santana's face that it almost hurts to look at -- it's not jealousy, that would be ridiculous, it's just something unpleasant curled tight against Quinn's chest, a sort of wanting that doesn't exactly translate onto the girls in front of her, but hurts from the knowledge of what they have together, even if it's imperfect and messy. Quinn would kill to have someone look at her like that, uncaring and sweet and caring too much at the same time.   
  
"Your turn," Santana says, reaching out and tapping Quinn's ankle with her pen.  
  
"Finn and Rachel will break up," Quinn says, automatic and not what she means to say. They're supposed to say fun things. "Or get back together, whatever."   
  
"Been there, done that," Santana says, but she looks quickly at Quinn with a narrowed gaze that might pass for concern. Quinn hasn't done a very good job keeping in touch with Santana -- or anyone, really -- this summer beyond Rachel's ridiculous pool parties that she somehow convinced herself might actually be fun. (And never were, not with nearly everyone hanging around, hanging on each other, not thinking about the year ahead and the stress of the futures and being so  _stuck_ .)  
  
They go in rounds for a little while until Quinn is sad she didn't take Santana's earlier offered drink, which definitely had something strong in it, despite whatever Santana claimed.   
  
"Someone will come out," Quinn says, a little bit of a snap when the rotation of predictions comes back to her for the sixth time, and Santana stops her pen tapping and Brittany looks up from painting her nails in stripes. Quinn narrows her gaze at Santana, feels a little powerful when Santana's expression doesn't twist automatically into something defensive and hard. "Someone will realize they're in love," Quinn adds, "everyone will fight, everyone will make up, we'll still be in Glee pretending it's not the only place where everything is less shitty, everyone will graduate and move on and have a future, and I'll --"  
  
Quinn cuts herself off, her body tight and pressed hard against the headboard behind her. "I'll --" she repeats, and then shakes her head with a little laugh.   
  
"Quinn," Santana says, surprisingly soft. Brittany crawls up before Quinn can say anything, can stop feeling ridiculous for blurting everything out, even though Santana and Brittany are probably her closest friends.   
  
Brittany settles against the headboard next to her, not really touching her but leaning her weight against Quinn's shoulder and sighing. After a moment, Santana crawls up there too, settling in on Quinn's other side and leaning so Quinn is stuck in the middle of them both, their weight heavy and matching against her sides.   
  
"McKinley is shit," Santana says, "and this year will probably be shit. Maybe it'll be the best, I don't know, but it'll probably suck like 80% of the time."   
  
"That's comforting," Quinn says, "thanks."  
  
"It's the other 28% precent that matters," Brittany says, and neither Santana or Quinn correct her on her math, instead falling quiet.   
  
"I'll be a better friend this year," Quinn says, turning mostly to Santana but letting Brittany fall heavier on her arm. "I'll be there if you need me, you know, for everything."  
  
Santana huffs out a breath that tickles over Quinn's cheek. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she says. "But, if I did, I'd say thank you. And that you best be there if I need you."  
  
"Me too," Brittany says, quiet and soft. She reaches out over Quinn's lap and holds out her hand, one pinky outstretched. "Promise."  
  
Santana takes her pinky first, hooking her own around Brittany's while Brittany looks at Quinn expectantly.   
  
Quinn lets out a little loose laugh and reaches over her own lap so they can all hook their pinkies together, and it looks and feel ridiculous but Quinn lets it warm her, lets herself relax down against the headboard so she can lean her head onto Brittany's shoulder.   
  
They stay silent for a while and Quinn feels comfortable, more relaxed than she has all summer, just enjoying the moment, enjoying having friends that for now have no ulterior motives against her.   
  
"Should we rate guys now?" Brittany asks. Quinn can  _feel_  Santana's groan. "Girls?" Brittany amends.   
  
"Can we not talk about relationships at all?" Quinn asks.   
  
Santana reaches over and settles her hand along Quinn's thigh, and it's a testament to how relaxed Quinn is that she doesn't make a comment. "I'm completely game for that," Santana says, instead of something bitchy about Quinn's relationship history like Quinn expected.   
  
Quinn considers it, though, considers what she knows about Santana and Brittany and what they won't tell her that weighs heavy in Santana's gaze and strong in Brittany's, and she figures it's a good rule to keep for the rest of the night. Santana's grip along Quinn's thigh tightens and the soft pets of her palm lengthen -- Quinn can feel Brittany watching the movement but none of them say anything about it for a few drawn-out seconds.  
  
"There's always the back-to-school sleepover tradition," Santana says, something in her voice low, not unexpectedly so.  
  
The first time they did this two years ago was the first time and one of the only times Quinn had let herself be with both of them -- they'd been young and stupid and drunk off the promises that Sophomore year held, drunk off giggles and whispered talk about sex that left them all laughing and feeling powerful, proud. They'd laid in a heap and Quinn had felt fuzzy, her limbs heavy, and it had taken a few minutes for her to clear the haze in her head and really see what was happening in front of her: Santana and Brittany on the floor in front of her, Santana's lips dragging down Brittany's neck from above, Brittany's hips twisting in graceful rolls underneath, just like dancing but not.   
  
That night, Quinn had let herself be pulled into the middle and she'd come shaking from Santana's mouth and Brittany's fingers, harder than she'd come around her own fingers before and definitely more than she'd come (not at all) the one time when she had let Finn dry hump her behind the bleachers with his lips clumsy on her own.   
  
The second year she said it wouldn't happen, not with whatever Brittany and Santana had and thought was normal, not with the year that Quinn had gone through, but it had happened anyway and felt like more than just a physical release.   
  
"I --" Quinn starts, but the protest built up in her head falls away automatically. She fits her face into something resembling resolve, and almost wants to grin. "It's the last year for tradition," she says, her voice fuller than she feels like it should be, like she's making a toast.  
  
Santana's grip on her thigh tightens in surprise and Brittany laughs against her side, into the cropped layers of her hair.   
  
Quinn, in a way that isn't as small as it should be, feels like she deserves this. The intimacy of her two best friends, beyond whatever complicated layers of a relationship or feelings lie between them -- she can be the barrier, take what they want to give and maybe return it this time. For the last year of this before everything -- before she has to settle.  
  
"Lay down," Santana says, not a request, and she sounds more pleased than anything.   
  
Quinn complies, sliding down until she's flat on her back on the mattress.   
  
"We'll take care of you," Santana says, leaning over her, a twin smile on Brittany's face when she leans forward, too.   
  
Quinn lets them, too, raising her back up so Santana can get her shirt over her head, pressing her hips off the mattress when Brittany slides down her shorts. She arches her back up towards Santana's mouth when she brushes her lips over the top swell of Quinn's breast through her bra, spreads her legs when Brittany kisses the inside of her thigh. They're taking care of her, her best friends, the girls who would talk trash about the same boys they'd cry about a week later for the past few years.   
  
Quinn twists up, suddenly, turning to Santana because she's nearest and pulling her in by her shoulders for a kiss, licking right into her mouth and grinning around Santana's parted lips, a thank-you and a reminder all at once. Quinn used to be in charge -- will always be in charge, leading them down the McKinley halls, head held high even when it felt like the weight of the world was resting right on top of it.   
  
This year, she thinks, she'll do the same again. Except this year they'll all have their heads held high not for the benefit of other people, but for themselves, and it no one notices the difference Quinn doesn't care, but she wants Brittany and Santana to know.   
  
"Brit, come up here," she says, the words tangled and muffled against Santana's mouth. "All of us." She holds out her hand with her pinky outstretched and Santana nips at her bottom lip as she and Brittany link up with her, the moment lasting for only a second before Santana pulls her hand down, high up on the inside of her thigh, pressing Quinn's fingers into the bare skin there.   
  
"I mean it," Quinn says, suddenly sure she has to get her point across, "all of us, no matter what this year. We'll --" she stops unsure of what to say. It used to be easier, she used to be able to say they'd take over the school, that they'd rule it together, and she used to mean it would just be her. That's not her priority this coming year, but suddenly her lack of any priority at all, or the priority she had set of 'getting through' doesn't seem adequate at all.   
  
"We'll be awesome," Brittany says with conviction, sucking little kisses down the line of Quinn's neck where her hair can't get in the way anymore. Maybe when they're done, Quinn will ask them to help her cut it even shorter.   
  
"We'll figure out the future," Santana says, "away from this shit town.  _All_  of us."  
  
Quinn opens her mouth to disagree, habit, but Santana shakes her head and hums.   
  
"All of us will get out of here, Fabray," Santana says, her lips drawing into a tight line, the effect mostly ruined by how slick and flushed dark they are from Quinn's mouth. "And with any luck, we'll never have to come back."  
  
"I've got plenty of things we can use for luck," Brittany says. Quinn doesn't want to say anything to ruin the thought -- it's nice, that sort of thought about the future, and it might be nice to hold onto. To hope, a little.  
  
Santana laughs, the vibration right against her mouth, and Quinn flexes her fingers higher on the inside of Santana's thigh, her thumb brushing up and inward to make Santana groan.   
  
"There is a serious lack of nakedness all up in here," Santana says, breaking away and tugging off her own nightgown. Quinn watches, unashamedly tracking the way Santana's skin is bared, up her thighs and then her toned stomach to the curve of her ribs, her breasts pressed up and together under a plain bra -- Quinn had been expecting lace.   
  
"I know, they're awesome," Santana says, grinning slyly down at her. Against Quinn's side, Brittany nods her head in agreement.   
  
They fall together like that, twisting on the mattress, girls before their sophomore year and girls before their senior year all at once -- it's not full circle, the circle between them is too broken up at different points for that, but it's something good, something better than Quinn has let herself have all summer -- and instead of release this time, Quinn's orgasm hits her powerfully like hope, even as she groans around the way Santana has her thighs pressed tight around her face.   
  
It's a silly thought, hope, even though Quinn's body feels light and tense all at once, and there's something comforting in feeling the strain in Santana's thighs around her, in knowing she's the one making Santana muffle moans into Brittany's mouth, making her rock her hips down. It's helping out, and Quinn can do that, wants to do it, even, more than before, not just like this but maybe in other ways, too.  
  
After Santana, Brittany comes last and Quinn helps, pressing soft words about how good Santana looks between Brittany's thighs against the shell of Brittany's ear that she realizes belatedly just makes both Santana and Brittany look sort of tense and maybe a little sad. Brittany's whole body shakes when she comes, anyway, and Quinn lets Brittany grip her hand, her other hand tangled in the curls of Santana's hair, half cupping the line of her jaw.   
  
They slump down with their heads by the footboard and feet by the headboard and Brittany hums something happy and nonsensical under her breath. Quinn wants to get up and get dressed (she suddenly has more things to add to the prediction list, better things) just as much as she kind of wants to lay between Santana and Brittany forever and never have to get up and face anything less simple than this moment.  
  
"I love us," Brittany says warmly, soft and relaxed into the space around them all. Quinn smiles, but out of the corner of her eye she can see the way Santana swallows back words and whatever else and she reaches down to squeeze Santana's hand against her own. Maybe this year  _will_  be about them. About fixing things and the future, and Quinn has never really seen the point in fixing things that aren't related directly to her, but she can probably make a few exceptions.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ 8/01/11.


End file.
